I was always positively intrigued by the Pathare Prabhu community of Mumbai, the early settlers of what was way back then called the Mahim Island. The descent of this remarkable clan is linked to the Nepal monarch and Suryavanshi King Ashwapati, and his descendants reportedly came to Mumbai via prior relocations to Bihar and Gujarat. Their language, culture, customs, and cuisine are a fine blend of diverse communities, and they are deservedly known as the city’s earliest mavericks, thanks to ahead-of-time reforms like women’s education and widow remarriage. What truly sets them apart, however, are visionaries among them like the revolutionary Shivkar Talpade, wet dock pioneer ‘Bhau’ Lakshman Harichandra Ajinkya, Barrister M. R. Jayakar, and freedom fighter and ardent Tilak follower Dr. M. B. Velkar. More about the last mentioned can be accessed at the link: https://www.fitforpurposecontent.com/2019/09/the-veracious-velkars-of-good-ol-mumbai.html
So, I was naturally overjoyed when wedlock inadvertently brought me closer to Pathare Prabhus, my wife being a peculiar mixed breed, the offspring of a Koknastha Brahmin father and a Pathare Prabhu mother. While the marriage was celestially arranged and has provided me with a lifelong anchorage, it didn’t take me long to become completely disillusioned by the obnoxious behaviour of some of these ostensible descendants of a great lineage – given their idiotic obsession with speaking (broken) English at social gatherings, blatant favoritism and brazen prejudice towards blood relations, fake and hypocritical family and community pride, a savagely hedonistic culture of partying like there is no tomorrow, and compulsive disorders of a few miserly beings among them (who throw marriage treats like they were a favour on the world, and make preposterous ‘you will get either this or that’ propositions while gifting on joyous occasions.)
Of course, this cultural degradation is not restricted to Pathare Prabhus alone, it pervades all castes, creeds and communities. My own Brahmin tribe is well known for its hollow ideals and shallow conduct, all in the delusional belief that it is the most superior race meant to rule the world. The most retarded specimens - koknastha Brahmins in particular - can be found in the Dadar area of Mumbai and the Peths of Pune.
Whether Brahmins or non-brahmins, the majority populace of any caste has allowed their pride to turn into vanity which in turn has wiped out the underlying ethos. This is precisely why Indians can't collectively initiate any grassroots movement and still depend on individual crusaders to bring about lasting change in the right direction.
Coming back to my story, in the chaos and commotion caused by these repeat offenders, he invariably stood tall on the dais of his unassuming nature, simple ways, and an affable persona, keen to build Fevicol bonds with like-minded folks, irrespective of caste, creed, religion and economic status. He was my wife's maternal uncle, and thanks only to his reassuring presence, I could overlook the toxic manoeuvres and machinations of most others, who from time to time have underscored pettiness and parochialism as their defining character traits.
I have fond memories of the few interactions with him, which revealed a truckload of insights into his mind and method. I have no doubt whatsoever that he would have made an excellent screenplay writer, incisive chronicler, and decent actor, given his uncanny knack of animatedly recounting experiences and anecdotes of a bygone era, of the Mumbai of his time with its eateries and other landmarks, his formative years of schooling, his tryst with banking that began immediately after matriculation and ended with his retirement, and his passion pursuits including his foodie adventures pan Mumbai, and of course his obsession with films, theatre and music.
Talking of his narration skills, I can’t ever forget the picture-perfect description of his day to day schedule – how the day starts with the milkman announcing his arrival with the ear-splitting high-decibel sound of the rusty grill door at the entrance of his housing society being ruthlessly pushed to the side and how it ends with the loud hawking of the Kulfi seller. There was a P. L. Deshpande-like touch to the humorous discourse.
It was a royal treat learning about his fag-end tryst with learning harmonium, marked by the inimitable description of the process including an impressionistic portrayal of the teacher and his mannerisms. Every description was a film in its own right – whether the family visit to a Lonavala acquaintance in the wee hours of the morning, or a mishap en route an official stock inspection that manifested into ankylosing spondylitis.
It was through him that I could trace many authentic non vegetarian joints of vintage Mumbai, as also know about astonishing tales like one stall owner from Fort area who became part of the city’s folklore selling butter milk with thick malai, till it was found that the so-called malai was nothing but gelatin paper.
Over time, he confided in me about many tightly encrypted family secrets about how a few so-called near and dear ones caused him considerable mental anguish, and how he decided to steer clear of making any claim to family property or inheritance, choosing instead to start a new life built on hard work and magnanimity in the distant Mumbai suburb of Goregaon.
His demise happened in the most tragic circumstances sometime before the advent of the pandemic, close on the heels of his wife’s death from a terminal illness. We were not informed of his demise for reasons known only to those who took this mindless decision, and it was several months later that we came to know he was no longer in our midst.
Fate has its own cruel ways to prevent kindred souls from spending quality time with each other, but it can’t take away the inexplicable charm of remembrances that stay with you all your life, nor can it take away the human ability and agility to summon the good times with good people at will; you can make them reappear in your mind’s eye more than even before, even when they are no more.
Padmakar Moreshwar Ranjit, you are sorely missed but more importantly, you are alive and kicking in our hearts and minds.
PS – I shall be forever indebted to Padmakar Ranjit’s niece Bharti Desai for sharing his vintage snaps at short notice; she is yet another good soul like him, so is her son Vaibhav Vilas Desai, the most deserving inheritor of a founding legacy of goodness. May it continue unimpeded for generations to come. Amen!
